You lasses of ---- come list to my song, ’Tis concerning the fate of the fancy chignon; The ladies of Paris are determined ’tis said, To wear their own hair at the back of their head. They have given o’er wearing such queer looking lumps Of nasty old rubbish screw’d up in great bumps, To cast them adrift they have made up their minds, To be ugly for ever they don’t feel inclined. CHORUS. The Chignons are going we’re happy to hear, From the young Ladies they must now disappear, They are not in the fashion and soon must be gone, It’s all up the spout with the saucy chignon. ’Tis a good job they’re going, for the darling young girls I am sure would look better in natural curls; Madame Rachel has worn such a wopper ’tis said, She is quite bandy-leg’d thro’ the weight of her head: Girls that want to be married before Whitsuntide, Pull off your Chignons and throw them aside, If you practice economy you’ll find it true, That a fancy chignon will make bustles for two. Those buxon old ladies who like to be gay, At the change in the fashions are out of the way, For with wig and chignon they all come the grand, Tho’ their heads are as bald as the palm of my hand. The ladies at first will feel rather strange, They will get light-headed I hope by the change, It will seem rather awkward at first I suppose, To wear hats on their heads now, instead of their nose. Now what’s to be done with the left off chignons, They are sure to amount to some millions of tons! To set them on fire would make all the world sneeze, And slaughter some thousand industrious fleas; For bachelors they would do very fine, Or three in a bunch for a pawnbroker’s sign; They’d pay very well to boil down for grease, Or they would make some good beds for the country police. If the chignons were gathered, it would be a treat To see them made use of for pitching the street, Or perhaps they would do, either black, red, or brown, To fill up the quaries about the ---- Downs: If the Volunteers had them they’d make cannon balls. And tell ---- enemies to look out for squalls, If a foe should come here to do us a wrong, They’d get blow’d to old Nick with a charge of chignons. The poor cows and horses will welcome the change, And pigs with their bristles on freely will range, No more county crops for the women in jails, Nor donkeys lamenting the loss of their tails. No more bags of sawdust to way down your heads, Nor rags tied in bundles as big as a bed, The ladies declare that the fashion is gone, They’ve clapp’d the bumbailiffs on all the chignons. London:--H. SUCH, Machine Printer and Publisher, 177, Union Street, Borough, S.E. THE DANDY HORSE, OR THE WONDERFUL VELOCIPEDE.